


Life and Death and in Between

by MapleleafCameo



Series: Death and the Detective [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Johnlock, M/M, Romance, Some angst, Some humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-11 12:58:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/pseuds/MapleleafCameo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death returns to visit Sherlock once more, this time with some bad news. Maybe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Peace

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of my story Between Love and Death. I really had no intention of writing another story in this Universe but as usual Death had the last word:) I blame mattsloved1. She gave me the words peace, joy, love and this is what it produced. (I thank her for reading this over & catching my mistakes as well:). I took the words & started to write a one-shot but it wanted to be a 3 part story so here it is – I have the story mostly written – it just needs some tweaking so the next chapter should be up soonish - & I promise I will be working on the next chapter of Shadow as well:P
> 
> I have made John a pescetarian in this, much like Martin Freeman. It is purely for bacon based humour:D
> 
> I do not own. I never will, but maybe someday I will write a story I do own:)

_The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at anytime. Mark Twain_

Dawn crept over the edge of the windowsill and slowly made its way across the floor, warming the boards, shining on the rug, the red fibers seemed redder and glowed in the light of day. It reached the edge of the bed. A long, thin, artistic hand stuck out from under the covers; the shaft of sunlight warmed it enough to cause a twitch. The hand was sluggishly drawn back beneath the sheets and the shape under them rolled away from the encroaching brightness, hoping to cling to the dark on the far side of the bed, not quite prepared to face the new day.

 Exhaustion had played a toll on the young detective’s body. A long case and a grueling set of murders had finally caught up with him. He had all but collapsed after Lestrade had slapped the handcuffs on the murderer.

 The detective pulled the duvet further up and over his head, hoping to recapture that glorious bliss slumber can bring, especially when one simply does not have to get out of bed, just yet.

 By the time the light reached the spot Sherlock had hidden, other disturbances were interfering with his ability to slip back under, most notably the sound of dishes rattling in the kitchen and the surprisingly delightful smell of bacon.

 As the enticing, heavenly scent reached his nostrils and the realization it was meat from _sus scrofa domesticus,_ he sat up abruptly in bed.

 John did not eat bacon. John was a pescetarian. John refused to even think about frying up bacon for Sherlock, even when Sherlock was at his most stroppy and in need of a supply of high salt, high fat, crispy deliciousness. Mrs. Hudson would make him bacon, but she would have cooked it in her own flat and brought it up and the smell would not be as intense nor permeate through the closed bedroom door.

 Therefore, it was not John in the kitchen and he was not, most definitely not, frying up bacon for Sherlock.

 Intrigued and more than a little fascinated as to who would break into the flat to fry bacon and where was John in all of this, Sherlock wrapped the sheet around himself and padded silently out to the kitchen.

 He stopped in the doorway and stood for a moment, head tilted to one side.

 A curious sight met his eyes.

 A short man with blond hair, which was valiantly hiding the elements of grey, in a t-shirt and jeans, feet bare, stood in the kitchen, frying up what looked like a Full English. He was wearing John’s t-shirt, John’s jeans and John’s body. But it wasn’t John. There was no sense of _Johnness_ emanating from the figure.

 Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

 Just as he was about to speak, the body in the kitchen turned to face him, the face infused with the **joy** of the day and happiness at seeing the detective.

 “Good Morning! I hope you don’t mind. I know you’ve had a rough night and I thought I’d make it up to you and cook you some breakfast.”

 Sherlock glared. “You have done it again haven’t you?”

 “What? Oh. Yes. I see.” There was a pause as the corners of John’s mouth turned down, not as happy as when it first laid eyes on Sherlock. There was a sigh. “Come and sit down at the table and I’ll explain.” And as John, who was not John but was a familiar entity to Sherlock, passed by the taller man, it gave Sherlock a sad, sweet smile and led the way to the table with two laden plates. Death had returned once more to inhabit the body of his friend and blogger. It slipped back into the kitchen and returned with a pot of tea and two mugs.

 Sherlock stood in his sheet, torn between glaring at Death or falling ravenously on the breakfast that had been made for him. He chose the later.

 Winding the ends of the sheet over his arm he walked over to the table and sat down.

 He tried the first bite of bacon and sighed.

 Death was a good cook.

 There was tranquility for a few moments as the two ate, Death obviously relishing the taste of food. The last time it had only had the opportunity to try tea.

 While Sherlock ate he contemplated the expression on John’s face as Death gazed out the window, eyes lit with pleasure and wonder, as entranced with people gazing and watching motes of dust dance in the sunlight as he had been with watching the rain the first time. Sherlock observed John’s face as it became more open and relaxed than it ever did without the presence of Death. He wished he could see _John_ respond like that; wished John would let his guard down.

 A small part of him wished he could be the one who would put that look on his face.

 After a companionable silence, the detective managed to shove the food around in his mouth in order to address his guest.

 “John’s a pescetarian. He would not be happy to discover you forced him to eat meat.”

 Death stopped chewing momentarily and looked decidedly embarrassed.

 “Well, actually I did know, but when I started making breakfast for you, it smelled so good. I’ve always wanted to try it.” He resumed eating again, but placed the bacon to the side of his plate with a wistful expression. He looked back at the taller man, John’s eyes bright with inquisitiveness and something else. Ah, it was back. That look that he saw lurking in John’s eyes, whenever the doctor thought Sherlock was not paying attention, but was never more prevalent than when Death was also peeking out. Death, who shared John’s infatuation with the younger man.

 During Death’s last visit it had informed the detective it loved him, loved him for the beauty of The Work, for the beauty Sherlock made of it’s work.

 It had also told him John shared the sentiment.

 The shy soft smile that was John’s and not, continued to light the older man’s face and made it appear younger.

 The smile broadened and became more open, cheekier.

 “You have questions?”

 Sherlock stared at Death.

 “You are quite amusing, aren’t you?”

 “Did you know John has always wanted to say that back to you, to say it and have a response you would be impressed with?”

 Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. “Should you be giving away all of John’s secrets? The last time you were here you happened to tell me John had feelings of desire for me. I don’t think that is something he’d necessarily want me to know.”

 Death half shrugged. “Oh I think he wants you to, just doesn’t know how to go about it. He’s afraid it will ruin the friendship. He values your friendship more than anything.”

 Sherlock’s face softened. He looked at Death the way he wished he could sometimes look at John. “I know.”

 “Is that regret?”

 “Regret, no. It is a necessity. John does not want to cross the line, I do not want to hurt John by insisting he does. I too, value our friendship.”

 Death leaned forward and captured Sherlock’s hand. “But he does. He just doesn’t know how to take that first step.” It stroked the inside of Sherlock’s wrist. “Your pulse. It’s increasing.” It leaned forward into Sherlock’s space. “Oh, yes, there go your eyes. Mmmhmm. It’s a shame.”

 “What’s a shame?”

 Death was close enough to brush John’s lips against Sherlock’s, lightly, feather lightly, almost as if a cobweb of a dream. And then it sat back again. The mischievous look was still there, but the face had grown more sober.

 “You need to tell him.”

 “Tell him what?”

 “You need to tell him before it’s too late.”

 Sherlock sat and looked at his friend and his inhabitant. Understanding gleamed in his eyes.

 “You have inside knowledge. Something you want me to know. Do you want me to guess? I don’t guess, you know. Is someone going to come along and sweep John off his feet? No, that’s not it. You have that particular look on your face, the one John gets when he is trying to hide something from me or he doesn’t know how to tell me. Ahhh, I see. Now I know. John is going to die and if I don’t tell him, I will regret not expressing my unrequited love. It won’t work, you know, you can’t force me to upset the apple cart, reverse the status quo. I don’t work that way.”

 Something hooded John’s warm, blue ocean deep eyes, something blocked the light from shining out of them. Death had bad news for him. It had that look John must have had when trying to tell the young soldiers they were going to be okay, knowing he was lying to them. That look sat too familiarly upon John’s face. Not comfortably. John would never be comfortable with having to break the news to someone, but as if it were a well-worn burden, one carried in the secret places in his heart.

 He sat back quickly, “No. It’s not John, is it? It’s me.”

 The look on John’s face turned regretful.

 Sherlock was stunned. All men have places in their souls where, in the quiet of the night, thoughts overturn security and familiarity, bring forward the shades of worry and stress and magnify them. Sherlock had never been afraid to die, he had been afraid to miss out on the thrill, the chase. If he died what would become of all of the lovely, vivid puzzles.

 “I wanted you to know. I wanted you to have a few days, a few nights, perhaps, of happiness. Not everyone gets a chance like this. I wanted you to have it.”

 Sherlock looked at the face of his friend. “And what happens to John? I tell him I reciprocate his feelings and then I die? Do you really think that could be the best thing for him?”

 Looking thoughtful, Death said, “It wouldn’t be easy for him, but he will heal more quickly because he will have no regrets, he won’t harbour bitterness in his heart from not sharing this with you.”

 Death stood up and began to clear away the dishes and left Sherlock to sit there, staring pensively out the window.

 Well I am sorry, but I must be going. I have a schedule and I’m a bit behind.” It looked guilty. “Umm, could you please not let John know he ate bacon? I do feel rather badly about that. But, you know, it’s bacon.”

 Sherlock looked at Death in John’s body. “I am not sure how I would even be able to begin that conversation.”

 It looked back down at the floor. “I’m really sorry, Sherlock. I don’t choose people. It is just the way it is. I’m going to go upstairs and lie down. When John wakes up he won’t remember any of this.” It turned to head up the stairs and then paused. “I’ll see you soon,” it said softly.

 Sherlock looked down at the floor, thoughts firing rapidly. “Wait.”

 It paused.

 “How? How will it happen?”

 Death looked with a terrible wretched longing at the young man in the sheet. “I can’t say, Sherlock.” It gazed deeply into Sherlock’s eyes. And then it seemed to come to a decision. “It will be quick. I promise. No pain.”

 Sherlock nodded thoughtfully.

 Death turned and climbed the stairs without a backward glance.

 The sun continued to rise, the world to turn and Sherlock, to wait once more for John.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> : So apparently even when you have the chapter mostly fleshed out, life & the Internet & computer glitches conspire against you! I was really hoping to have this up sooner:P My Canadian comes through with manifold sorrys!! Here it is now – I hope you enjoy it! Please let me know. Thank you so much for the interest so far! It makes my day!! More exclamation points!!!
> 
> The word ‘viridescent’ is real - look it up:D Any other errors are mine, all mine:D
> 
> As usual you know I don’t own!

_Life is better than death, I believe, if only because it is less boring, and because it has fresh peaches in it. - Alice Walker_

_The ripest peach is highest on the tree - James Whitcomb Riley_

After John woke up, he lay still for a few moments, wrapped in the remnants of a decidedly odd and utterly realistic dream about Sherlock. It had been unsettling and revealing at the same time and he felt he was on the cusp of something life changing. A sensation of unlimited possibilities flooded his senses.

 He was also wondering why he was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, questioning the odd, slightly salty, slightly greasy taste in his mouth and the sensation of fullness in his stomach, as if he had already had breakfast, but not a well feeling, more heavy, as if he had consumed something that had disagreed with him. He stretched and clambered out of bed, assuming his odd state of dress had something to do with a manic flatmate. John made his way downstairs where he found said flatmate sitting staring out of the window. A pensive Sherlock, who sat in his sheet. The questions that had been ready to tumble out of his mouth “What the hell happened? How did I wake up in my clothes? Was I drugged last night? Why do I smell bacon? What’s going on?” died there as he looked at his friend’s stricken face. Instead he kept it simple and brief.

 “Sherlock?”

 Sherlock turned his head and looked at him. He blinked, gave John a look that seemed full of anguish and fear and then stood abruptly and left for his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

 The heady feeling within popped like a soap bubble and John stood there decidedly out of sync with the world at the moment, as if gravity had unequivocally shifted and chose not to work properly or as if the poles had reversed.

 All was not right in his universe. He just wasn’t sure what was wrong.

 The whole day was spent like that. He had watched Sherlock stalk back out of his room, clothed now in his sleepwear and dressing gown, throw himself upon the couch and put up an almost palpable wall of silence.

 Spending the day cloaked in the attitude that he’d missed something, John tried to keep things normal, more for his own sake. He felt himself lurch forward to begin a conversation only to halt abruptly at the expression on the younger man’s face.

 John was left wondering if he had simply imagined the look Sherlock had given him this morning. He would have dismissed it outright if he hadn’t caught the younger man’s eyes following him around the flat all day, hadn’t felt the unspoken tension in the air and the hints of something greater roiling beneath the icy exterior of the still form on the couch.

 Things were coming to a head late in the day. John knew he must broach the strained silence between them, when Sherlock finally decided to speak. And in typical Sherlockian fashion, he blurted out the thoughts that had been held inside his head and expected him to keep up.

 “John, what would you do if you only had one day left? Would you do the one thing you have always wanted to do, no matter the consequences?”

 If he was surprised by the question he didn’t show it. He looked at Sherlock momentarily, weighed the topic with proper consideration and answered the detective as he usually did, with open, heartfelt honesty. He felt he had to, as if there were more at stake than a flippant answer, which would never reduce Sherlock’s anxiety.

 “If that one thing made a difference to me or to someone, then yes. I would have nothing to lose, would I? I mean I’d gain something, yeah?”

 “What if it was the hardest thing in the world you have ever done?”

 “I would probably still do it or try, anyway.”

 “What if the cost was the possible ending of something you cherished, but the reward was the beginning of the best thing that ever happened to you?”

 John stilled. He simply stood and stared at Sherlock. He felt an increase in his heartbeat and respiration. Did Sherlock mean what he thought he meant, or was he simply reading what he wanted to read into his inquiries?

 As for Sherlock, he could see that the doctor was perhaps beginning to get an inkling of where his questions might be leading. He saw John step back, straightened his shoulders slightly and then plunged ahead. An odd stray thought floated in the precision of his mind, but not out of place in its organization. Not out of place because John was taking up so much more space now. The thought was simple; _John is so brave_.

 There was more depth than could simply be explained in four words, so many layers in that statement. More words than could fill a thousand libraries to explain the complexity that is John. The simple **peace** the doctor’s presence brought to Sherlock helped to calm him after this morning’s revelation.

 “Why are you asking these questions?”

 “I will tell you if you answer me first.”

 John looked down at the floor, took a deep breath. He had closed his eyes, the thoughts, almost, but not quite clear on his face. Something indefinable swept across the older man’s face; a mixture of emotions, each too brief and quick for even Sherlock to discern. A pause, a wait of calm and then bright blue eyes looked into his, shining with something. Hope, maybe.

 “I would say that the thing that is the most unattainable, the thing that makes you the happiest, that is the thing you would want, if it didn’t cause hurt or pain or fear, but if it brought you peace and love and joy, then I would say do it, no matter the cost, no matter how hard.”

 Sherlock blinked. The knowledge he had been given battered inside his head. The new found awareness of how precious life was, with the need to tell John, come clean, quarreled with the tightly wrapped insecurities of a man who had told the world time and again, and had been answered in kind, that he was a sociopath and a freak. He was neither, simply a man who was in reality afraid of being hurt.

 He looked at John, the one person who had reached into him and had managed to remove some of those insecurities, open the complication that was Sherlock, someone who had managed to touch him and he knew that this was where he wanted to spend his last moments on earth. With the security and foundation that was John Watson.

 He rose in one fluid movement and crossed the floor toward him. He took his hands and placed them on either side of John’s face. He raised one eyebrow at the other man, asking permission. John stared back at the taller man, unafraid and determined, the quiver of something on his lips and a rising excitement in his eyes. The corner of his mouth quirked with a ‘what are you waiting for?’ invitation. Sherlock gently lowered his mouth and touched John’s lips with his own. The older man stiffened slightly in shock and realization that this was not a dream and then he tentatively reached his own hands up and placed them upon Sherlock’s waist. He melted into the younger man like a sigh or a whisper. Sherlock pulled John closer, moving his hand around to the back of John’s head and cupping it. He kept his eyes closed, afraid to open them to see the warmth turn cold, to see him withdraw, to lose their friendship. But when John clutched Sherlock harder and moved his mouth with Sherlock’s, soft, yielding, sweet and tender, the hidden depths of passion and yearning both men had been concealing, flared up and drove all other thoughts from their minds.

 After a few seconds of eternity, John broke the kiss and smiled his heartbreaking smile at Sherlock. Sherlock, in turn, searched John’s eyes as he looked to see if there was any doubt or fear in them. They only held warmth and love, elation and trust. His oh so brave John had given Sherlock everything in that kiss. The younger man held it reverently in his heart, blended it there with his own and marveled at the newborn creature that stirred inside. He felt a flicker of regret that he had waited so long, but now was not the time. Now he would celebrate the wonder that had been born on this day, tomorrow was for mourning.

 He wrapped his long arms around John, rested his head on top of his and breathed in, inhaling and bonding with it, transferring his scent permanently into his memory, hoping it would be the one thing he’d take with him into oblivion. He kissed the top of the blond head and then reached down and took John’s hand in his own, weaved their fingers together and led him into his bedroom.

 He proceeded to kiss and taste and awaken new emotions in both of them, John following in perfect step. Each thrill and touch, each sigh and moan, contined to create and strength the new beginning. The intensity and ecstasy encased them and tied them more firmly together. Sherlock, who had been afraid that perhaps he would be disappointed or jaded, that having John was not the same as wanting John, was left with craving more. And John, John surrendered everything in those moments and gave Sherlock more than his heart.

 Afterward, as the doctor lay sleeping in his arms, Sherlock, who wore a bittersweet grin on his lips, ran his hand over John’s back, and mapped it on his fingers, mapped deep down to the cellular level. He was relaxed and languid and the feeling of contentment with their lovemaking flowed through his long limbs, limbs that were sheltering the other in a fiercely gentle and wholly possessive embrace. He was equally saddened that their time was not longer. For the first time since he remembered, he worried about someone else’s future. Not that he’d ever given much thought to his own, but he regretted that his death might be the breaking of the finest man he ever knew. He could not say he was sorry he had committed to this path with John, however.

 At some point in the long night, John stirred and opened blurry eyes as he took in the fact that Sherlock had not slept. After scattering kisses like stars across the pale, moonlit skin, he rested his chin on the detective’s chest and spoke, in a voice tinged with a hint of worry, but overflowing with love and trust.

 “You’re not regretting it, are you?”

 Sherlock smiled, eyes locking with John’s. He scrunched forward to place an awkward kiss on John’s forehead.

 “No. Never. Only regretting I waited so long.” His voice resonated and rumbled through John’s chest as they lay in close contact, joined together so completely, it was only by the shades of skin colour that it could be told where one began and the other finished.

 John searched the viridescent eyes, looking for signs that Sherlock was uneasy or regretful. He saw nothing but contentment and love there, although they also contained something that was new, something John couldn’t put his finger on. Something that caught his breath and made him question the veracity of the other’s statement. Not for the content, but for what he may have left out.

 John frowned and began, “Sherlock…”

 But the detective answered by rolling John onto his back and silencing him with endless, full kisses, driving further doubts from the doctor’s mind. He was content to spend the rest of the night, the rest of his life and into the next with Sherlock’s undivided devotion. And while, realistically, he knew Sherlock’s attention would waver, not stray to other lovers, but to the required excitement and rush of The Work, he was determined to enjoy these stolen moments while they lasted.

 The dawn came, the sun repeated it’s ramble across the bedroom floor, but this time found two in a bed formerly occupied by one and the light dappled the two slumbering figures wrapped in each other’s arms, caressed and blessed by the new day.

 

 

 


	3. Joy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you to everyone who has left Kudos,comments or followed along:) on this and Between Love & Death. I am honoured.  
> Special thanks to mattsloved1 for the words & checking for my mistakes – any left behind are mine.  
> Thanks to thedragonaunt for the comment in her review about Death – the consummate liar. Hopefully tda, you won’t have to shut your eyes too much in this chapter:D
> 
> Don’t own. Think of the fun we could have if I did:)

_Death is the last enemy; once we’ve got past that, I think everything will be okay. Alice Thomas Ellis_

 It took three days. Three days of Sherlock cycling through unbelievable bliss and rapture to anxiety and sorrow as he tried to hide from John why he would suddenly turn despondent, before he confessed everything. The older man listened without censer or disbelief; wonderful, marvelous John who believed the madness of this story. Sherlock took him back to the first time when the doctor had received the near fatal blow to the head with a lead pipe and told him the details of discovering that John wasn’t John, to the morning earlier in the week when Sherlock had awoken to discover John absent once more but his body inhabited and frying bacon.

 “I was going to ask you about that, but I got distracted,” John had murmured quietly while placing a soft kiss upon Sherlock’ s bare shoulder, one of the objects of John’s distraction. Sherlock had found it easier to tell John everything in the comfort of their bed where it could be laid open and nothing could be hidden in the intimacy of lying together.

 Sherlock ran long fingers through John’s short hair, pulling and tugging at the strands, weighing them in his hand, marveling at the multitude of colours.

 “Death asked me not to tell you about the bacon. It seemed ashamed and I was afraid you might be angry with me for allowing it.”

 John looked startled for a moment as he searched Sherlock’s face and then he began to giggle, giggle with a slight touch of hysteria in it, astonishment and fear at the oddness that was his life. His head rested on the same shoulder he had brushed with his lips, the tremors from the laughter shaking through the younger man resting beneath him. Sherlock chuckled along with him, the sound life affirming as it held the edge of darkness away.

 John finally glanced up at the face of his beloved and wiped the tears gathered on his own cheeks, there from his outburst. He breathed deeply to try and control his reactions.

 “Of all the things in the world for me to be angry about, all the idiotic things I’m forced to do for you, all the trouble we get into and you worried about me eating bacon?” He grinned at the detective, a grin that shaped his mouth and made him see **m**  younger, until Sherlock looked in his eyes and saw infinite, timeless grief there. Grief over the lost opportunities and wasted moments. Fear glimmered there as well, fear for the remaining time they had together. John believed Sherlock with all his heart, because something tugged it to tell him this was truth, something lay cold in him, on an instinctual level, where he remembered the brush of Death in his cells and memories.

 “Even you, the Great Sherlock Holmes, can’t say no to Death.” And his face sobered with the truth of those words and reflected the look in his eyes as he reached up and placed his hand **s** on either side of Sherlock’s face, while those ancient navy eyes searched and studied the face of the other man. He looked for signs of the other’s imminent death. Sherlock wrapped his fingers around John’s wrists and felt himself secured to the other man, the first real feeling of being solid and part of the world since Death had waltzed in and shaded his heart with a gelid finger.

 Satisfied that Sherlock was not going to expire in the next few moments, John laid his head upon his warm chest and listened to the beat of the heart underneath the pearlescent skin, as if counting the minutes they had left.

 Sherlock ran his hands up and down John’s strong back, craving continuous skin-to-skin contact. He held his love enveloped in reassurance that he was here right now. Reassurance for which of them he wasn’t sure. It was probably for both.

 The rest of the afternoon was spent like that, comfort given and received.

 oOo

 A month came and went with no sign of Sherlock’s departure. John decided that for both of their sakes they would carry on as usual, although he did have Sherlock hustled to the clinic and had Sarah give him a thorough going over. Test results came in and there were no signs of anything untoward. John kept as level a head as he could under the circumstances and Sherlock continued to take cases but most were benign and offered nothing detrimental except for the loss of an expensive pair of shoes while searching a duck pond for a missing jewel.

 Sherlock began to relax and both men stopped being hyper aware of the anxiety and instead settled into a more comfortable, domestic relationship. It was still there, the worry and the stress but both having had near death experiences, the lesson that came from them had been take what you can and enjoy the day-to-day existence. John even said that one night in so many words.

 “We both live lives of danger, either of us could go at any moment. Let us not waste the opportunities we have now.” And he smiled and leaned into Sherlock with a kiss full of promise.

 Finally came the morning when John, having woken earlier than usual, sat in the predawn light thinking. There was a niggling of intuition that had been strumming along his more recent deliberations, a stray belief that something was not right, something in the impression of what was happening or more precisely what could happen to Sherlock. Something the detective had missed because it had to do with emotions, those slippery sensations he struggled with because of his belief they were unnecessary to deal with anything outside the realm of ‘John’.

 He thought back to the time he couldn’t remember, when Death inhabited his body. He was trying to recollect a feeling that played upon the edges of his mind, an impression he couldn’t shake. Something wasn’t right about the situation, and he decided he wasn’t going to wait upon Death’s pleasure.

 While he thought, he watched Sherlock in a moment of stillness, something to be treasured, as even in sleep he tended to move and shift, usually toward John’s centre of gravity. His eyes beheld the beauty of the man. Not that it was often said that John thought of men as being beautiful, but Sherlock, with all of his lines and angles and stark colour contrasts, was breathtaking. A tremor clenched his heart as he worried as to where this would lead, but he wished for answers. Why would it tell Sherlock he had only stolen moments when more time had passed? John was apprehensive that calling it to him would hurry the journey, but he knew they couldn’t live like this in spite of his words to Sherlock to live each day as if it were their last.

 He stilled his thoughts and turned inward, thinking back in time to moments when he had felt the feather touch of Death upon his soul, most notably the heat and sand of a desert war, where events could have unfolded in a different, more tragic way. As he slipped into a light meditative state he thought briefly of that moment, thought what would have happened if he hadn’t lived and with it the knowledge that Sherlock would have died at the hands of a serial killer or a Chinese smuggling gang or perhaps Moriarty if he hadn’t survived that bullet. He remembered a vague feeling of the time with a lead pipe when a familiar figure approached him, one he had thought at that moment was Sherlock, but now he wondered. And as he went to those memories he felt a slight stirring beside him as if Sherlock were awaking, but he knew when he opened his eyes, that Sherlock would not be staring at him.

 And sure enough a stranger wore Sherlock’s beautiful, shy, reserved just for him smile.

 "This is very different from wearing your body, John. You are all compact, solid muscle, lethal in a soldierly way, while he is all grace and animalistic. It makes an interesting change.” And Death looked upon the face of Sherlock’s beloved and the smile deepened as it reached out Sherlock’s hand to touch John’s face.

 “I can see why he finds you as beautiful as you find him. Oh, don’t look so surprised,” it said gently with Sherlock’s deep tones. “There is exquisiteness in you as well. He delights in the mystery and surprise you bring and he sees that he can never figure you out no matter how long he studies you. You are such a dichotomy to him, death and life rolled into your hands, gentleness and strength. Your dual personalities amaze him. And me as well.”

 John sat back, mesmerized by the differences between Sherlock inhabiting Sherlock’s body and Death being there. He could understand why the detective was fascinated by the visits, but it was time to get to business.

 “I wanted to talk to you. I have a question for you.”

 Sherlock’s hand continued to caress John’s face. John, familiar with both the touch of the man he loved and the presence he had nearly embraced time and again, allowed it.

 “Ask.” It said simply.

 John, ever direct, replied in kind, “Why lie?”

 Death sat up, a look of surprise and amusement fitting comfortably upon the face it wore. “How did you know?”

 John nodded, fractionally, as Death confirmed what he knew to be true.

 “You left traces of your thoughts and feelings behind. It’s taken time for me to figure it out but it makes sense. Why would you tell Sherlock he only had days when in fact it is nowhere near his time? I’m right aren’t I?”

 Death shrugged, a glimmer of regret, a sprinkling of mischief, a good dose of humour and delight. “Let me ask you a question John? Would you have ever found peace in your heart if you hadn’t told him how much you care for him, how much you **love** him? Would Sherlock? I told him because I am privileged to see the path of men’s choices. I could see the path that led on the one hand to the two of you growing old and full of the regret of missed opportunity and I could see the path that led to this happiness you share between you. There is balance in the love you two have.” Death paused and looked far away, into a distance only it could see, “You would have been content with each other’s company to the end of your days, but you wouldn’t have been complete. I felt I owed it to you, John, as well as to him. But, because I can’t have what you could have, I owed it to me as well. I wanted to see you both happy.  He will always be my first love, but you will be my second, you with your deadly and surprisingly innocuous contrasts.” He leaned toward John but this was no feather light brushing of lips. This was passion and fire as he molded their mouths together. Death broke off the kiss unexpectedly, leaving John feeling slightly bereft. “No worries. I had reluctant permission. Sherlock is aware. His mind is extraordinary. He is a little annoyed…” And Sherlock’s hand went to the alabaster brow and rubbed at the frown lines, which gathered like a storm. “Okay, he’s a lot annoyed, because you are his, but he is letting me get away with it.” The frown was replaced with a rueful smile. “ I am told this had better not happen ever again, to either of you. No worries.”

 John scanned the adored face with the stranger gleaming out. And he smiled at trickster death, the consummate liar, the thief of life. Death, who had deceived and beguiled the two of them with the art of life and living, rather than the coldness of half-life and the missed opportunities that would have been far worse. Or with the tragedy that either’s untimely mortality would have brought.

 “He approves because this is the last time, isn’t it?”

 Death smiled a heartbreakingly, sweet smile at John. Funnily it was the same one Sherlock had had on his lips after their lovemaking last night, as the mirror image of death and sex lay side by side on Sherlock’s face. “No John, I will see you once more.” It paused and ran a hand on the side of the doctor’s face once more, a caress full of wonder, adoration and regret. “I will see you both one final time.” It brushed John’s lips once more and straightened.

 Then Sherlock’s eyes rolled back in his head and his body slumped back onto the bed.

 And John gathered Sherlock’s very much alive, very much warm and thriving body to him and sat with him clutched up against his chest, waiting until Sherlock opened his eyes to the morning light.

 


End file.
